Til Death Do Us Part
by jellydonut16
Summary: AU: The idiot who invented the saying 'All's fair in love and war' probably didn't have any idea how catastrophic it was when the two became one. Trust me to fall in love with someone in the mafia... But we all have skeletons in our own closets, don't we? Prumano


**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.**

_**'Til Death Do Us Part**_

o n e

Gilbert Beilschmidt whistled a happy little tune to himself, barely just under his breath as he washed his hands of the blood that stained it under the running water of the bathroom sink.

The crimson, thick liquid mingled with the crystal clear water, sending rivulets of pink droplets down his pale hands and spiraling down the drain. He reached up to grab the bar of soap conveniently set beside the faucet, his carmine eyes momentarily flickering over to the man currently lying in the bloody bathtub to his right.

The man's own dark eyes flickered over to his killer's— innumerable emotions flickered within them, but some were pretty obvious. _Confusion. Anger. Shock. Fear. _Gilbert was pretty sure the guy would be trembling out of sheer _terror _(of his awesomeness) if the said man currently didn't have a knife protruding out of his chest. The very chef's knife from the man's own kitchen, at that.

Yes, it won't be much longer.

Gilbert twisted the faucet close, shaking the stray droplets of water off of his hands with an easygoing grin plastered on his face. "You're quite an elusive little _Scheißkerl_, aren't you? And not a smart one, at that. Not _only _did you plan to run away to fucking Timbuktu to flee from your debts to the _Bratva_, but you actually tried to _rat us out_? Seriously, were you even fucking _thinking_?"

A dark, hollow chuckle escaped his lips as he stared down at the man— whose name wasn't even worth _mentioning— _pathetically trying to open his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Instead he started to cough violently, sending trickles of blood down his chin.

Gilbert winced, "Ooh, you might wanna get that checked out, man. I mean, _if _you ever manage to get yourself out of that tub. ...Which you won't."

The man started to convulse, flailing about on the porcelain tub, prompting water to splash about and over the edges of the tub. Gilbert hastily took several steps back and crossed his arms firmly over his chest. "_Hey_! These pants are designer, and they're _way _too awesome for you to stain them with your blood." He visibly relaxed and smirked, "Say, you wanna know your cause of death? Suicide. You were swimming in debt and couldn't find a way to pay it off, so you decided to take the _easy _way out to Kingdom Come and kill yourself."

The bastard made quite a profit from gambling the money he'd borrowed from the _Bratva_. Profit he sure as hell didn't want to return. So, of course, Gilbert the Awesome came to... _correct _this little problem— for _good_. Gilbert watched as the man's decrescendo breathing fade into deafening silence.

He studied the body for a few moments before reaching forward to see if there was any pulse. Nope. None. "_Auf Wiedersehen_." He whispered in his native tongue, narrowing his eyes a fraction.

Gilbert drew his hand back and ran it through his platinum blond locks, turning around to exit the bathroom. He reached into his pocket for his phone, dialing a number he knew all too well.

_"You have finished job, da?"_

"Yeah, I did. I got the money, too."

_"Very good, Prussia. Belarus will be waiting near drop A for exchange at fifteen-hundred hours."_

"_Ja_, I'll drop it off at three PM, _Mutti_," Gilbert mumbled as he rolled his eyes at the unnecessary formalities, slinging a heavy black duffel bag over his shoulder.

There was a tense and awkward silence before the call was hung up with an audible _click_.

He exited the house through the front door and casually jogged down the aged wooden steps, firmly fixing his black necktie. Gilbert turned the corner and made his way down the sidewalk, catching his reflection in one of parked cars in the residential area.

_Dayumn,_ he thought to himself, taking a moment to smirk at his own reflection. _I sure am a damn fine Prussian. Even though Prussia doesn't actually _exist _anymore, I'm a full-blooded Prussian by, uh, blood— technically German by nationality. So either way, I'm still awesome. And Prussian!_

He leisurely sauntered over to his silver Mercedes-Benz parked just a couple of blocks away. Gilbert got in the car and tossed the black duffel bag in the general direction of the backseats before sliding his key in the ignition and revving the engine. After a few moments, the roar of the engine evened out to a fine purr. Even his _car _(fondly nicknamed The Pimp-mobile) was awesome.

He pulled out of the slot and sped down the road, his hand automatically reaching over to the car's stereo so he could play whatever CD was in there last. He casually nodded his head to the thrumming beat of his favorite song by Infant Annihilator, called 'Decapitation Fornication'. It calmed his senses immensely.

A small smile tugged at his pale lips at the prospect of grabbing a quick drink with his good friends, Francis and Antonio. They all worked nine-to-five desk jobs in different buildings; different companies— at least, that's what Gilbert wanted them to think. His _actual _working hours were far from the norm; his work far too... frowned upon– but generally common anyway— in all classes of society.

But, hey; money is money, right?

The neighborhood he was driving through was slightly on the lower middle class end of things. A two-story house was a rarity in the suburban area, and the shrubbery was sparse. Every so often, he noticed that the houses looked eerily creepy with rotting wood and chipping paint. He was pretty sure a serial killer _had _to live in one of them, busily mutilating the bodies of their victims while their neighbors were completely oblivious...

A shudder ran down Gilbert's spine as he drove past a scary-looking two story house that looked straight out of a horror movie. _Mein Gott, these houses freak me out! _His grip on his steering wheel tightened as he firmly shook the thoughts out of his head.

"I just killed a _man_, _Verdammt_! How can these houses _possibly _have any effect on the _awesome me_?!" He told himself, bringing a hand up to press the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger.

Yet a sigh of relief couldn't help but escape his lips upon driving out of the graffitied gates of the dingy neighborhood.

•

Drop A was situated in one of the many restaurants in the city's Chinatown. The turf belonged to the local Chinese mafia— one the _Bratva _Gilbert belonged to was on some sort of pact with. The boss of the group was some guy named Yao Wang. Thus, Gilbert automatically nicknamed the Chinese mafia, 'the Wang Gang'.

He pulled the Pimp-mobile in a slot a couple of blocks away from the drop, grabbing the duffel bag and getting out of the car. He locked the car and slung the bag over one shoulder, wary of his surroundings due to the force of habit. But then again, it was always in his nature to be wary.

As a kid, he kept a diary where he wrote of the many misfortunes that befell his peers, which he'd gathered through observation. Well, when he wasn't busy inflicting said misfortunes on the others himself, anyway.

It made excellent blackmail fodder.

...It still does.

Gilbert dug his hands into his pants' pockets, snickering to himself of times where he'd make fun of his childhood, erm, friend; Roderich Edelstein. The scrawny twerp was _such_ a pushover then. Heck, he still is!

The wistful smirk on his face twitched downwards as he noticed several passersby eyeing him with interest. Yes, yes. Gilbert was aware of his devilishly good looks; but the thing is, attracting attention isn't exactly ideal when a shady drop-off is about to go down.

Was it his platinum blonde— nearly _white_— hair that caught their attention, or was it because of his glistening ruby red eyes with a hidden gleam of mischievousness most his age had long lost?

He gulped, averting his gaze to the ground to conceal his eyes at least. The sidewalk he was on was fairly crowded, with the occasional vendor trying to sell him various salves in glass bottles, or traditional Chinese confections wrapped in vibrant colors of cellophane. He just gave a terse shake of the head and carried on until his feet led him to the entrance of The Imperial Pagoda.

The building itself was no pagoda in a literal sense, save for a small shrine tucked into one corner of the The Imperial Pagoda's perimeters. Instead, the building was home to a lavish and critically-acclaimed restaurant that served authentic Chinese cuisine. To why this particular restaurant was chosen as a drop, Gilbert had no idea. Most ideal drops would be away from outsiders' prying eyes and eavesdropping ears; this one was in the fucking heart of a _very _densely populated Chinatown.

He momentarily glanced up at the pebble stone walkways where thin stalks of bamboo grew along its narrow, sinewy path, effectively giving off a 'zen' vibe, save for the sounds of the people bustling about and cars passing by.

He fixed the strap over his shoulder and snuck a glance at his watch as he strode in. It was three PM, on the dot. A small smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he strode in, feeling his phone vibrate in his pocket.

He pulled it out and automatically opened the text from his associate, code named Belarus.

**Tasha: Request the table under Bella Roux.**

_Hah. Punny, _Gilbert noted, a snicker escaping his lips as he made his way to the hostess.

"Hello and welcome to The Imperial Pagoda! Would you like a table for one?" The girl spoke up, giving him an amiable smile.

He shrugged his shoulders and sheepishly grinned back at her, "Actually, I'm meeting someone here. She reserved the table under Bella Roux?"

She nodded in affirmation, stepping away from the table she stood at and motioned towards the elaborately decorated room. "Right. If you would just follow me,"

_Not too shabby, _Gilbert thought to himself as he gave the place a glance over. The place didn't particularly have the obnoxiously bright red and faux gold ornaments one would find in other establishments, but it held some subtlety of oriental architecture and design. The grand centerpiece was in the very middle of the room— a cluster of dragons carved out of a single piece of wood and engraved with delicate and intricate designs. Whoever designed the place had quite a good eye for interior fixtures.

The hostess led him to one of the more secluded areas of the restaurant, passing several diners having shrimp shumai and chrysanthemum tea. And in one corner, there was a blond seated at one of the booths in the very back. He thanked the hostess, who bowed her head slightly before walking away.

He waited several seconds before sliding in the seat opposite her. Belarus had long, light blond hair that cascaded down her back, dark blue eyes and pale skin. She sat in a navy blue trench coat, her arms crossed over her chest.

"Do you have it?" She queried, voice icy with sternness Gilbert himself wasn't even sure _came _from.

He rolled his carmine eyes, shrugging the bag strap off his shoulder and hauling it onto the tabletop. "_Ja_, I do. In a bad mood again, Natalya?"

She narrowed her eyes at him, "You shall call me Belarus, and _only _Belarus. Got it? I am no friend of yours, Prussia."

Just as Gilbert was about to open his mouth to retort that she probably had no friends, _period_, the sound of footsteps belonging to several people approaching them caught both of their attentions. His crimson eyes widened a fraction as a sudden stiffness struck his person and shot up his spine.

Yao Wang.

"A little birdie of mine told me that someone from the _Bratva_ is lurking in _my _territory, aru," the leader of the Chinese mafia spoke up, pushing a small steel cart before him. He was relatively short in stature and had long brown hair tied into a low, delicate ponytail with a red hair tie. The head Wang of the infamous Wang Gang wore the standard white attire for chefs and cooks, with sauce stains mottling certain places.

Gilbert and Natalya momentarily shared a look of panic of being compromised before Yao nonchalantly waved a hand hidden within the comforts of extremely long sleeves at them, a laugh escaping the man's lips.

"Don't worry; Ivan told me you would be in my restaurant, aru,"

Before he could help himself, Gilbert blurt out, "_You_ own this restaurant?!"

Yao rolled his chocolate brown eyes and set a few dishes before them consisting of various types of shumai and steamed buns. "Of course I do. I practically _own _all of Chinatown, aru. Now, come and try some of my cooking, aru! My treat!"

The two members of the Russian mafia blanched considerably as Belarus roughly tugged the black duffel bag over to her side. She scowled at Yao, "You may be _acquaintances _with my brother, but that doesn't mean I trust you. Nor will I ever."

And with that, she abruptly stood up and stormed out of the booth, the duffel bag slung over her shoulder.

_The hell just happened?_

"What in the world— who in their right mind would turn down _free food_, aru?" Yao mumbled to himself, perplexed.

Gilbert glared at Natalya's—no, _Belarus' _— retreating figure before turning to the Chinese mafioso before him, a sigh escaping his lips. "Look, man, I kinda just ate and all, but I appreciate it—"

"Then why not stay and eat? These are my famous green tea steamed buns, aru! You'll like it!"

"U-Uh," the albino inwardly panicked. He was currently armed with only a handgun with several rounds hidden in a holster within his black blazer. He was outnumbered five to one, at that. "No thanks?"

The Chinese mafia boss relented and let out a disappointed raised up a small wicker basket of fortune cookies up to the _Bratva_ member's face and offered him one.

"Do you want one, at least, aru? I _insist_. _Take _one, it's free!"

"I'll pass—"

"No, _really_. _Take one_." Yao urged, an underlying tone of warning hidden in his words.

Gilbert forced a grin on his face and fished a fortune cookie out of the basket as the Wang Gang leader beamed and nodded in approval, continually nodding in insistence until the former ripped open the plastic wrapper and cracked the cookie open.

He unrolled the slip of paper as he raised an eyebrow up at what the note had read:

"**It requires more courage to suffer than to die."**

—**Napoleon Bonaparte**

...What the _hell_ is _that_ supposed to mean?

•

"I was so awesome today," Gilbert proudly proclaimed, taking a seat beside his best friend and proverbial partner-in-crime, Francis Bonnefoy on one of the aged leather barstools in their favorite pub, _Bacchus_.

"But of course, _mon ami_," the latter drawled, his cerulean blue eyes twinkling as he languidly tipped the glass of red wine in his hand in slow circles, which prompted the deep crimson liquid to slosh around in the goblet. "When are you not?"

Gilbert rolled his eyes at the Frenchman, raising a single index finger up, which immediately caught the bartender's eye. "Say, where's Toni?"

"He got caught up in another one of his meetings, I assume," Francis replied, running a hand through his silky shoulder-length golden blond locks. "How was work today?"

Carmine eyes met cerulean. "It was okay, I guess. It was kinda slow today so it was boring."

"You know, _cher_, when work flow is slow, people tend to be happier."

"Yeah, well, I'm not like most _unawesome _people." Gilbert declared, eyes flickering over to the frothy pint of Heineken the bartender placed before him. He pulled it over towards himself before lifting it up to his pale lips and taking a long swig. Finally, he set it down and, again, glanced at Francis. "How's eyebrows doing?"

Francis groaned, rolling his eyes. "How many times must I reiterate it to you that _mon cher's _name is Arthur and not 'eyebrows'?"

Gilbert snorted, "I just call it like I see it, _mein Freund_."

The blonder of the two merely shrugged the comment off. It would not make a difference to argue with an individual such as the (awesome) albino phenom that was— and _is_— Gilbert Beilschmidt. Francis had learnt that not long after being an acquaintance of the Prussian when they had first met. "He is doing fine, I guess. But he gets very upset with me for no reason at all nowadays,"

"The dude's too sensitive for _your_ own good,"

Francis snorted. "_Mon Dieu_! What irony, Gilbert— you're in no position to say that about _mon amour_, when _your_ lover is just as sensitive!"

"Hey! Lovino's no pansy ass! H-He just gets— He just naturally— _He's just more emotionally open, Verdammt!_"

The Frenchman closed his eyes, waggling his finger in Gilbert's face. "Ohonhonhon~ Do not deny the fact that Lovino is just as moody as Arthur, _mon ami_,"

"Yeah, well... Whatever, man!"

"Ah... It seems like we have the same preference in lovers. _Passionate_. _Feisty_... _Moody_. Oh, _mon Dieu_, _yes_!" Francis groaned in an orgasmic manner, clenching and unclenching his fists, the delicate glass of wine forgotten on the bar's wooden surface.

Gilbert scoffed, rolling his eyes, "Then I guess that Toni's the only odd one out of all three of us. What the hell does he see in that twerp, Roderich?"

His companion frowned slightly at the mention of Toni's, erm, '_significant other_'. "_Merde_. Not _again_," he groaned, rolling his piercing blue eyes. A fact about Gilbert Beilschmidt: he has an uncanny obsession with— to put it bluntly— _bitching _about Roderich Edelstein.

Like _hell_ would Francis know why the albino took every chance he got to insult the Austrian. He and Antoine asked the self-proclaimed Prussian himself _why_, innumerable, _countless_ times, but to no avail. In fact, Gilbert would just start boasting of the plethora of times his awesome self had PWNed Roderich when they were merely kids/teenagers/adults.

Thus, Francis just sighed and watched Gilbert through half-lidded eyes as the latter began to rant nonsensically about how stuck-up Roderich is. Just as he was about to tune the self-proclaimed Prussian out...

"Hey, guys! Sorry I'm late!"

...along came a Spaniard.

Said Spaniard took a seat beside the Prussian, greeted the bartender and ordered a Jack and Coke. Antonio Fernandez Carriedo was their other best friend as well as their other proverbial partner-in-crime, but he was more of an accomplice or an additional guilty conscience and voice of reason more than anything.

Gilbert had finally ceased his nonsensical ranting and high-fived Antonio. "S'about time, _mein Freund_! What took you so long?" He chortled, raising his finger up again. Within seconds, a second pint was placed before him.

Antonio sheepishly chuckled and scratched the back of his head. "Ah, well I guess I got caught up in another meeting. _Lo siento_,"

"Kesesese~ Franny and I were just talking about the twerp—"

"Ah, Antoine, how was it, _mon ami_?" Francis hastily— yet _smoothly_— cut in.

Thankfully, the brunette didn't pick up on it. He hummed in thought, pressing his lips together, a hand under his chin as his eyebrows furrowed. This was Antonio's thinking face.

Suddenly, he gave the Frenchman a grin that instantly lit up the normally dim room, all traces of previous pondering ceased. "It went really well! There were no screaming matches during the meeting this time~ which is a _good _thing! Finally~!"

The bartender set a tall glass of Jack and Coke before the Spaniard, the latter immediately taking a sip.

Gilbert glanced over and raised an inquisitive eyebrow at him, "Kesese~ Vhat's with ze childish drinks, Toni? I thought zat we had long passed the stage of drinking beverages spiked with alcohol back in college," he asked, the German accent thickening in his words to accompany the distinct buzz of alcohol in his veins. Instead of waiting for an answer, the albino ranted on. "Hey! Remember zat time we went to that one nightclub—"

"The underground one in Amsterdam with the huge tank of absinthe?" Antonio helpfully supplied.

"Ah, that was a wonderful night," Francis wistfully whispered, cerulean eyes twinkling. "If only I could remember what happened."

"It was so cool though, how it looked radioactive," Antonio commented.

Gilbert scoffed, "I bet zat's all you could remember!"

"Oh, _mon Dieu_! Give me a break. You didn't particularly last _that_ long either, _mon ami_," Francis snickered. "I vaguely remember seeing you dry-humping one of the barstools and yelling about your 'impressive 5-meters'!"

Antonio grinned, "I remember that too! Fusosososo~ more like five _centimeters_,"

Gilbert began to choke on his beer and slammed his pint glass down, flipping both of them off on either side of him with both hands. "Oh, yeah? Vell, vhatever! Fuck you, _Arschlöcher_! _Nein, Verdammt! _I vas talking about ze one in Berlin with ze Jäger-train, _mein Gott_, that vas awesome."

"It has been a while since I've last had a Jägerbomb," Francis observed, motioning to the bartender for another glass of wine.

"I remember that night," Antonio muttered, shivering. "I am never drinking _that_ much tequila ever again,"

Gilbert laughed, throwing his arms over the shoulders of his best friends. "We should totally take an awesome roadtrip around Europe again! It's been ages since we've been in our respective homelands, _ja_?"

"_Sí_, we should~! I miss my country~" Antonio acquiesced, already feeling giddy with excitement.

Francis pulled his phone out and began to scroll through his calendar, "Let me see when I have an opening to take leave first..."

The three, called the Bad Touch Trio, then began to plan (connive) for their awesome roadtrip maybe possibly next summer.** Summer**, when the Spanish sun was at its highest, the beaches of Barcelona filled with scantily clad lads and lasses as the three sipped on chilled faggy cocktails in the colors of the rainbow. **Summer**, when the nights were cool in France as the three staggered down the beautiful little streets of Paris, drunk off of the sights and red wine. **Summer**, when the ice-cold German beer was like ambrosia itself, straight from the beer tap in one of the many pubs the three used to frequent themselves to, singing songs and telling of tales of their many (mis)adventures to the inebriated patrons; anyone, really, who would listen.

_Bzzt! Bzzt!_

The Prussian's cerise eyes widened and instantly glanced down at the phone protruding from within his pocket.

_Bzzt! Bzzt!_

He pulled it out in haste. There could only be one person calling him now...

He glanced at the screen.

_False alarm. They're only texts. _He told himself, feeling relief for a split-second before _actually reading _them.

**Lovi baby: WHERE THE FUCK ARE U**

**Lovi baby: GET UR ASS BACK HOME RN BASTARDO**

_Bzzt! Bzzt!_

**Lovi baby: olo**

_...Scheiße._

"_Scheiße!_" Gilbert blurt out, slamming the hand that was previously holding his beloved beer down onto the countertop. Francis and Antonio stopped their conversing and gave him curious glances. "Shit, sorry guys, I gotta go home. Lovino's beckoning for _mein awesome presence_, so I shall see you guys _later_," he drawled, pointing at both of them with his crimson eyes suggestively (deviously) narrowed, smirk tugging at his pale lips, before slamming down a couple of crumpled bills onto the countertop to pay for the beer.

And now... he had to haul ass back home.

•

"_NEIN NEIN NEIN NEIN NEIN_," a certain Prussian cried out in the distance from the inside of a certain silver Mercedes-_fuckin'_-Benz Pimp-mobile, _certainly _stuck in _fucking traffic_.

_Verdammt!_ He internally panicked, nervously glancing at his sleek black iPhone. He's already tried to coax Lovino out of his all-CAPS rage by telling the (probably fuming) Italian that he was well on the way back home.

All would've probably gone well and he'd've been home in twenty minutes or so, until _this _happened. This fucking _Hündin _of a traffic jam. So instead of probably being home right now, he was still stuck in traffic in the heart of the city.

Russian mafia member or not, he couldn't just pell-mell whip his gun out and force the sea of cars to part for him like the freaking Red Sea... Well, as far as he knew, anyway.

It's been a while since he'd watched _Bruce Almighty _with Lovino. _Maybe we could watch it tonight, _Gilbert thought bemusedly. _And after... maybe we could _do _'it', too._

The albino let out a breathy 'kesese' at the prospect.

He reached into his pocket for his _other _phone; the one he used to contact his _Avtorityet_—his creepy Russian superior, other contacts like Natalya and associates in their particular ring of crime. Albeit the fact that they apparently got along just _dandy_ with the Wang Gang, the _Bratva _didn't get along with the other gangs dwelling in the city, like the '_Cosa Nostra_', AKA the Italian mafia. They've been trying to push those in the _Bratva _here out of the game because the latter had been raking in the money lately.

Keyword: **trying**.

_Sucks for them, _Gil thought, smirking to himself. _The _Bratva's _willing to do what those elitist bastards _won't_._

N-Not that Gilbert actually took _pride _in his line of work.

Well, actually, he _did_.

A _lot_.

More than necessary, really. _Hath he no __**shame**__?_

_..._That would be a full-out, _hands down_, 'Nein'.

The Prussian glanced down at his Nokia. He had looked far and wide for this particular model since it had the exact same characteristics/mythical powers as a blunt weapon used for murder, like a sledgehammer or a brick. If he threw it at someone's head hard enough, he was certain— _more _than certain, actually— that the victim's head would come flying straight off, or _at least_ would be stuck in a crippling coma due to irreparable brain damage for an unprecedented amount of time.

Best part was, it was _virtually _indestructible! And had really cool retro games!

_Yes_, folks; Gilbert got himself a Nokia 3310 (may heaven have mercy on us).

He shoved the legendary phone into his pocket and instead focused on what to say to Lovino when he got home.

•

Gilbert pulled the Pimp-mobile into his respective parking beside Lovino's own matte black Ferrari in front of their awesome two-story house. He pushed the door open and stepped out only to step back in to take another censorious glance-over in the rearview mirror, making sure there was nothing... _suspicious_ on his awesome person and his awesome clothing.

Sobered up? _Check._

No bloodstains? _Check._

Doesn't reek of the smell of death and murder? _Check._

Smells like beer instead? _...Check._

Looking _fine_, _sexy _and _awesome_? _Check, CHECK, __**CHECK**__!_

The albino smirked at his own reflection before grabbing his briefcase from underneath the passenger's seat and exiting the car. He locked the car with an audible _beep, beep_ and took long strides toward the general direction of the house. He felt anticipation bubble up inside of him at the prospect of seeing Lovino again after such a long day.

Thus, he found it within reason to throw the door open, jovially yelling out, "Baby! Ze awesome me is home!" as he flourished an arm before himself.

Almost immediately, a familiar head of dark brown head popped out from the doorway leading to the dining room.

_Shit, Lovi looks _pissed_, _Gilbert sheepishly thought, his outstretched hand still in midair. His grin had faltered into a wince as Lovi stepped out into the front hall and glared at him, arms crossed over his chest. The former cautiously set his briefcase on one of the end tables by the front door.

"You! _Stronzo_! Where the fuck have you been, albino bastard?! You've been hanging out with your dickish friends again, haven't you? Feliciano and I have been waiting for you since the beginning of time, _cazzo_!" Lovino scolded, hoping the bastard felt fucking _guilty_. _Dio Mio_, it was nearly _eight _and the three of them haven't eaten dinner yet. Feliciano and the potato bastard had been here since _four_, mind you!

As if on cue, Feliciano stepped out from the dining room and pulled Ludwig Beilschmidt—Gilbert's (robust) younger brother AKA the potato bastard/ve~ Luddy~ ve~—out of the dining room with him all the while beaming at the self-proclaimed Prussian. "Ve~ And Luddy too! _Ciao_, Gilbert!"

Ludwig gave a curt nod of the head, "_Hallo_,_ Bruder_."

Gilbert grinned and ruffled Ludwig's normally slicked back blond hair. "Kesese~ _Hallo_, Feli; West— Say, you didn't tell me that they were coming over, Lovi—"

"F-Y-_fucking_-I, I _did_, dammit! Tch, you probably didn't listen to me talking about it this morning, you stupid albino bastard."

The albino grimaced, raising his hands up in what he hoped to be an appeasing manner. "_Scheiße_. My mistake. Sorry, baby."

"Don't you 'baby' me, you drunk jackass. You smell like beer, dammit." Lovino rolled his eyes as Feli and Ludwig turned to go back to the dining room. The older Italian narrowed his hazel eyes at the Prussian, his lips curling down into a scowl. "Just get over here so we can eat already, _stronzo_," he murmured as Gilbert grinned and took several steps toward Lovino before softly pressing his lips against his, the albino's lips bittersweet with the aftertaste of beer.

The two then stepped into the dining room. The inside of the house had a very modernist, utilitarian and contemporary style _yet stunning _appearance, with full-length windows that usually let the light in, but were now covered with beige-colored blinds, whitewash walls and shiny black and white marble floors. The dining table was fashioned out of tempered glass and steel with six plush, black leather seats surrounding it, and on it were four plates brimming with spaghetti bolognese, slices of garlic bread and Neapolitan pizza.

"Italian food tonight, huh?" Gilbert commented, taking a seat beside Ludwig and opposite Lovino.

"Well _duh_. I'm not letting that potato bastard near my flawless kitchen getting his potato germs everywhere," The latter stated, as-a-matter-of-factly.

If the albino wasn't so enticed by his Lovino's cooking, he could've sworn he'd just seen one of Ludwig's ocean blue eyes twitch. Actually, Gilbert thought it quite ironic since _he _was technically a German too, thus automatically being equated as a 'potato bastard'.

Anyways. This was the thing about him— the _awesome _one— and Ludwig— the not-so awesome one. Since Gilbert's mom had remarried to some guy from Germany after his father passed away a long time ago, Ludwig was technically his half-brother. And since Ludwig was half-_Prussian_, Gilbert took the strenuous burden upon himself to remind that at _least _Ludwig was and would be half as awesome as Gilbert always was, is, and always will be. He always called Ludwig 'West' because his father came from the West side of Germany. Gilbert himself thought that dubbing him West _somewhat _made up for his paternal side's lack of 100% _pure awesome Prussianess_.

•

After the four finished eating, Lovino saw Feliciano and the potato bastard out while Gilbert began to stack up the plates on the table so it could be loaded into the dishwasher.

Lovino stepped in the dining room after a few minutes, leaning against the doorway as he stared at his husband. Gilbert momentarily paused his work and glanced up at Lovino, a small smile on his lips. "Dinner was amazing, baby. Kesese~ Sorry about forgetting dinner with Feli and West."

The Italian scoffed, a hint of a playful glint in his eyes, "Of course, bastard. I'm _Italian_. My cooking's _always amazing_." He pushed himself off the doorframe and strode over to the albino, arms firmly crossed over his chest. He took a deep breath. "A-And it's _fine_. Just... just don't piss me off again, a-albino bastard. Which I _know _you will, because you're an asshole. Eventually."

Gilbert stood up straight and turned to face Lovino, a grin upon his face, wrapping his arms around him into a tight embrace and pressing his lips against the top of his Lovi's head.

"_Ich liebe dich_, baby."

"_Ti amo troppo_, _bastardo_."

•

**A/N: _First Hetalia fanfic ever__._ Translations:****  
**

Scheißkerl - motherfucker

Auf Wiedersehen - goodbye

Da - yes

Ja - yes

Mutti - mother

Verdammt - dammit

Mon ami - my friend

Cher - dear

Mon cher - my dear

Mein Freund - my friend

Mon Dieu - my God

Mon amour - my love

Merde - shit

Lo siento - I'm sorry

Arschlöcher - assholes

Nein - no

Mein Gott - my God

Sí - yes

Scheiße - shit

Hündin - bitch

Avtorityet - authority

Stronzo - asshole

Cazzo - fuck

Dio mio - my God

Ciao - hello/goodbye

Hallo, Bruder - hello, brother

Ich liebe dich - I love you

Ti amo troppo - I love you too

Bastardo - bastard

**~jellydonut16~**


End file.
